Michael Strogoff: Part Two

Chapter XI

Between two Banks

By eight in the evening, the country, as the state of
the sky had foretold, was enveloped in complete darkness. The moon being
new had not yet risen. From the middle of the river the banks were
invisible. The cliffs were confounded with the heavy, low-hanging clouds.
At intervals a puff of wind came from the east, but it soon died away in
the narrow valley of the Angara.

The darkness could not fail to favor in a considerable degree the plans
of the fugitives. Indeed, although the Tartar outposts must have been
drawn up on both banks, the raft had a good chance of passing
unperceived. It was not likely either that the besiegers would have
barred the river above Irkutsk, since they knew that the Russians could
not expect any help from the south of the province. Besides this, before
long Nature would herself establish a barrier, by cementing with frost
the blocks of ice accumulated between the two banks.

Perfect silence now reigned on board the raft. The voices of the pilgrims
were no longer heard. They still prayed, but their prayer was but a
murmur, which could not reach as far as either bank. The fugitives lay
flat on the platform, so that the raft was scarcely above the level of
the water. The old boatman crouched down forward among his men, solely
occupied in keeping off the ice blocks, a maneuver which was performed
without noise.

The drifting of the ice was a favorable circumstance so long as it did
not offer an insurmountable obstacle to the passage of the raft. If that
object had been alone on the water, it would have run a risk of being
seen, even in the darkness, but, as it was, it was confounded with these
moving masses, of all shapes and sizes, and the tumult caused by the
crashing of the blocks against each other concealed likewise any
suspicious noises.

There was a sharp frost. The fugitives suffered cruelly, having no other
shelter than a few branches of birch. They cowered down together,
endeavoring to keep each other warm, the temperature being now ten
degrees below freezing point. The wind, though slight, having passed over
the snow-clad mountains of the east, pierced them through and through.

Michael and Nadia, lying in the afterpart of the raft, bore this increase
of suffering without complaint. Jolivet and Blount, placed near them,
stood these first assaults of the Siberian winter as well as they could.
No one now spoke, even in a low voice. Their situation entirely absorbed
them. At any moment an incident might occur, which they could not escape
unscathed.

For a man who hoped soon to accomplish his mission, Michael was
singularly calm. Even in the gravest conjunctures, his energy had never
abandoned him. He already saw the moment when he would be at last allowed
to think of his mother, of Nadia, of himself! He now only dreaded one
final unhappy chance; this was, that the raft might be completely barred
by ice before reaching Irkutsk. He thought but of this, determined
beforehand, if necessary, to attempt some bold stroke.

Restored by a few hours’ rest, Nadia had regained the physical energy
which misery had sometimes overcome, although without ever having shaken
her moral energy. She thought, too, that if Michael had to make any fresh
effort to attain his end, she must be there to guide him. But in
proportion as she drew nearer to Irkutsk, the image of her father rose
more and more clearly before her mind. She saw him in the invested town,
far from those he loved, but, as she never doubted, struggling against
the invaders with all the spirit of his patriotism. In a few hours, if
Heaven favored them, she would be in his arms, giving him her mother’s
last words, and nothing should ever separate them again. If the term of
Wassili Fedor’s exile should never come to an end, his daughter would
remain exiled with him. Then, by a natural transition, she came back to
him who would have enabled her to see her father once more, to that
generous companion, that “brother,” who, the Tartars driven back, would
retake the road to Moscow, whom she would perhaps never meet again!

As to Alcide Jolivet and Harry Blount, they had one and the same thought,
which was, that the situation was extremely dramatic, and that, well
worked up, it would furnish a most deeply interesting article. The
Englishman thought of the readers of the Daily Telegraph, and the
Frenchman of those of his Cousin Madeleine. At heart, both were not
without feeling some emotion.

“Well, so much the better!” thought Alcide Jolivet, “to move others, one
must be moved one’s self! I believe there is some celebrated verse on the
subject, but hang me if I can recollect it!” And with his well-practiced
eyes he endeavored to pierce the gloom of the river.

Every now and then a burst of light dispelling the darkness for a time,
exhibited the banks under some fantastic aspect—either a forest on fire,
or a still burning village. The Angara was occasionally illuminated from
one bank to the other. The blocks of ice formed so many mirrors, which,
reflecting the flames on every point and in every color, were whirled
along by the caprice of the current. The raft passed unperceived in the
midst of these floating masses.

The danger was not at these points.

But a peril of another nature menaced the fugitives. One that they could
not foresee, and, above all, one that they could not avoid. Chance
discovered it to Alcide Jolivet in this way:—Lying at the right side of
the raft, he let his hand hang over into the water. Suddenly he was
surprised by the impression made on it by the current. It seemed to be of
a slimy consistency, as if it had been made of mineral oil. Alcide,
aiding his touch by his sense of smell, could not be mistaken. It was
really a layer of liquid naphtha, floating on the surface of the river!

Was the raft really floating on this substance, which is in the highest
degree combustible? Where had this naphtha come from? Was it a natural
phenomenon taking place on the surface of the Angara, or was it to serve
as an engine of destruction, put in motion by the Tartars? Did they
intend to carry conflagration into Irkutsk?

Such were the questions which Alcide asked himself, but he thought it
best to make this incident known only to Harry Blount, and they both
agreed in not alarming their companions by revealing to them this new
danger.

It is known that the soil of Central Asia is like a sponge impregnated
with liquid hydrogen. At the port of Bakou, on the Persian frontier, on
the Caspian Sea, in Asia Minor, in China, on the Yuen-Kiang, in the
Burman Empire, springs of mineral oil rise in thousands to the surface of
the ground. It is an “oil country,” similar to the one which bears this
name in North America.

During certain religious festivals, principally at the port of Bakou, the
natives, who are fire-worshipers, throw liquid naphtha on the surface of
the sea, which buoys it up, its density being inferior to that of water.
Then at nightfall, when a layer of mineral oil is thus spread over the
Caspian, they light it, and exhibit the matchless spectacle of an ocean
of fire undulating and breaking into waves under the breeze.

But what is only a sign of rejoicing at Bakou, might prove a fearful
disaster on the waters of the Angara. Whether it was set on fire by
malevolence or imprudence, in the twinkling of an eye a conflagration
might spread beyond Irkutsk. On board the raft no imprudence was to be
feared; but everything was to be dreaded from the conflagrations on both
banks of the Angara, for should a lighted straw or even a spark blow into
the water, it would inevitably set the whole current of naphtha in a
blaze.

The apprehensions of Jolivet and Blount may be better understood than
described. Would it not be prudent, in face of this new danger, to land
on one of the banks and wait there? “At any rate,” said Alcide, “whatever
the danger may be, I know some one who will not land!”

He alluded to Michael Strogoff.

In the meantime, on glided the raft among the masses of ice which were
gradually getting closer and closer together. Up till then, no Tartar
detachment had been seen, which showed that the raft was not abreast of
the outposts. At about ten o’clock, however, Harry Blount caught sight of
a number of black objects moving on the ice blocks. Springing from one to
the other, they rapidly approached.

“Tartars!” he thought. And creeping up to the old boatman, he pointed out
to him the suspicious objects.

The old man looked attentively. “They are only wolves!” said he. “I like
them better than Tartars. But we must defend ourselves, and without
noise!”

The fugitives would indeed have to defend themselves against these
ferocious beasts, whom hunger and cold had sent roaming through the
province. They had smelt out the raft, and would soon attack it. The
fugitives must struggle without using firearms, for they could not now be
far from the Tartar posts. The women and children were collected in the
middle of the raft, and the men, some armed with poles, others with their
knives, stood prepared to repulse their assailants. They did not make a
sound, but the howls of the wolves filled the air.

Michael did not wish to remain inactive. He lay down at the side attacked
by the savage pack. He drew his knife, and every time that a wolf passed
within his reach, his hand found out the way to plunge his weapon into
its throat. Neither were Jolivet and Blount idle, but fought bravely with
the brutes. Their companions gallantly seconded them. The battle was
carried on in silence, although many of the fugitives received severe
bites.

The struggle did not appear as if it would soon terminate. The pack was
being continually reinforced from the right bank of the Angara. “This
will never be finished!” said Alcide, brandishing his dagger, red with
blood.

In fact, half an hour after the commencement of the attack, the wolves
were still coming in hundreds across the ice. The exhausted fugitives
were getting weaker. The fight was going against them. At that moment, a
group of ten huge wolves, raging with hunger, their eyes glowing in the
darkness like red coals, sprang onto the raft. Jolivet and his companion
threw themselves into the midst of the fierce beasts, and Michael was
finding his way towards them, when a sudden change took place.

In a few moments the wolves had deserted not only the raft, but also the
ice on the river. All the black bodies dispersed, and it was soon certain
that they had in all haste regained the shore. Wolves, like other beasts
of prey, require darkness for their proceedings, and at that moment a
bright light illuminated the entire river.

It was the blaze of an immense fire. The whole of the small town of
Poshkavsk was burning. The Tartars were indeed there, finishing their
work. From this point, they occupied both banks beyond Irkutsk. The
fugitives had by this time reached the dangerous part of their voyage,
and they were still twenty miles from the capital.

It was now half past eleven. The raft continued to glide on amongst the
ice, with which it was quite mingled, but gleams of light sometimes fell
upon it. The fugitives stretched on the platform did not permit
themselves to make a movement by which they might be betrayed.

The conflagration was going on with frightful rapidity. The houses, built
of fir-wood, blazed like torches—a hundred and fifty flaming at once.
With the crackling of the fire was mingled the yells of the Tartars. The
old boatman, getting a foothold on a near piece of ice, managed to shove
the raft towards the right bank, by doing which a distance of from three
to four hundred feet divided it from the flames of Poshkavsk.

Nevertheless, the fugitives, lighted every now and then by the glare,
would have been undoubtedly perceived had not the incendiaries been too
much occupied in their work of destruction.

It may be imagined what were the apprehensions of Jolivet and Blount,
when they thought of the combustible liquid on which the raft floated.
Sparks flew in millions from the houses, which resembled so many glowing
furnaces. They rose among the volumes of smoke to a height of five or six
hundred feet. On the right bank, the trees and cliffs exposed to the fire
looked as if they likewise were burning. A spark falling on the surface
of the Angara would be sufficient to spread the flames along the current,
and to carry disaster from one bank to the other. The result of this
would be in a short time the destruction of the raft and of all those
which it carried.

But, happily, the breeze did not blow from that side. It came from the
east, and drove the flames towards the left. It was just possible that
the fugitives would escape this danger. The blazing town was at last
passed. Little by little the glare grew dimmer, the crackling became
fainter, and the flames at last disappeared behind the high cliffs which
arose at an abrupt turn of the river.

By this time it was nearly midnight. The deep gloom again threw its
protecting shadows over the raft. The Tartars were there, going to and
fro near the river. They could not be seen, but they could be heard. The
fires of the outposts burned brightly.

In the meantime it had become necessary to steer more carefully among the
blocks of ice. The old boatman stood up, and the moujiks resumed their
poles. They had plenty of work, the management of the raft becoming more
and more difficult as the river was further obstructed.

Michael had crept forward; Jolivet followed; both listened to what the
old boatman and his men were saying.

“Look out on the right!”

“There are blocks drifting on to us on the left!”

“Fend! fend off with your boat-hook!”

“Before an hour is past we shall be stopped!”

“If it is God’s will!” answered the old man. “Against His will there is
nothing to be done.”

“You hear them,” said Alcide.

“Yes,” replied Michael, “but God is with us!”

The situation became more and more serious. Should the raft be stopped,
not only would the fugitives not reach Irkutsk, but they would be obliged
to leave their floating platform, for it would be very soon smashed to
pieces in the ice. The osier ropes would break, the fir trunks torn
asunder would drift under the hard crust, and the unhappy people would
have no refuge but the ice blocks themselves. Then, when day came, they
would be seen by the Tartars, and massacred without mercy!

Michael returned to the spot where Nadia was waiting for him. He
approached the girl, took her hand, and put to her the invariable
question: “Nadia, are you ready?” to which she replied as usual, “I am
ready!”

For a few versts more the raft continued to drift amongst the floating
ice. Should the river narrow, it would soon form an impassable barrier.
Already they seemed to drift slower. Every moment they encountered severe
shocks or were compelled to make detours; now, to avoid running foul of a
block, there to enter a channel, of which it was necessary to take
advantage. At length the stoppages became still more alarming. There were
only a few more hours of night. Could the fugitives not reach Irkutsk by
five o’clock in the morning, they must lose all hope of ever getting
there at all.

At half-past one, notwithstanding all efforts, the raft came up against a
thick barrier and stuck fast. The ice, which was drifting down behind it,
pressed it still closer, and kept it motionless, as though it had been
stranded.

At this spot the Angara narrowed, it being half its usual breadth. This
was the cause of the accumulation of ice, which became gradually soldered
together, under the double influence of the increased pressure and of the
cold. Five hundred feet beyond, the river widened again, and the blocks,
gradually detaching themselves from the floe, continued to drift towards
Irkutsk. It was probable that had the banks not narrowed, the barrier
would not have formed. But the misfortune was irreparable, and the
fugitives must give up all hope of attaining their object.

Had they possessed the tools usually employed by whalers to cut channels
through the ice-fields—had they been able to get through to where the
river widened—they might have been saved. But they had nothing which
could make the least incision in the ice, hard as granite in the
excessive frost. What were they to do?

At that moment several shots on the right bank startled the unhappy
fugitives. A shower of balls fell on the raft. The devoted passengers had
been seen. Immediately afterwards shots were heard fired from the left
bank. The fugitives, taken between two fires, became the mark of the
Tartar sharpshooters. Several were wounded, although in the darkness it
was only by chance that they were hit.

“Come, Nadia,” whispered Michael in the girl’s ear.

Without making a single remark, “ready for anything,” Nadia took
Michael’s hand.

“We must cross the barrier,” he said in a low tone. “Guide me, but let no
one see us leave the raft.”

Nadia obeyed. Michael and she glided rapidly over the floe in the
obscurity, only broken now and again by the flashes from the muskets.
Nadia crept along in front of Michael. The shot fell around them like a
tempest of hail, and pattered on the ice. Their hands were soon covered
with blood from the sharp and rugged ice over which they clambered, but
still on they went.

In ten minutes, the other side of the barrier was reached. There the
waters of the Angara again flowed freely. Several pieces of ice, detached
gradually from the floe, were swept along in the current down towards the
town. Nadia guessed what Michael wished to attempt. One of the blocks was
only held on by a narrow strip.

“Come,” said Nadia. And the two crouched on the piece of ice, which their
weight detached from the floe.

It began to drift. The river widened, the way was open. Michael and Nadia
heard the shots, the cries of distress, the yells of the Tartars. Then,
little by little, the sounds of agony and of ferocious joy grew faint in
the distance.

“Our poor companions!” murmured Nadia.

For half an hour the current hurried along the block of ice which bore
Michael and Nadia. They feared every moment that it would give way
beneath them. Swept along in the middle of the current, it was
unnecessary to give it an oblique direction until they drew near the
quays of Irkutsk. Michael, his teeth tight set, his ear on the strain,
did not utter a word. Never had he been so near his object. He felt that
he was about to attain it!

Towards two in the morning a double row of lights glittered on the dark
horizon in which were confounded the two banks of the Angara. On the
right hand were the lights of Irkutsk; on the left, the fires of the
Tartar camp.

Michael Strogoff was not more than half a verst from the town. “At last!”
he murmured.

But suddenly Nadia uttered a cry.

At the cry Michael stood up on the ice, which was wavering. His hand was
extended up the Angara. His face, on which a bluish light cast a peculiar
hue, became almost fearful to look at, and then, as if his eyes had been
opened to the bright blaze spreading across the river, “Ah!” he
exclaimed, “then Heaven itself is against us!”